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kingofsummer93 · 6 months

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Once Cursed, Twice Shy

Part 1 of my gift to @velidewrites for @acotargiftexchange!

Summary:

Don't mix vodka and magic, they said. It will end badly, they said.

Elain's never been particularly superstitious, but when a ghost from her past comes crashing back into her life, she realizes that the old saying might have been true after all.

And that she might have (accidentally and definitely not on purpose) cursed her ex-boyfriend.

Inspired by the Ex Hex by Rachel Hawkins.

Chapter 1: A Fateful Spark, an Ill-Timed Blaze

Ao3

Ten years previously

A clap of thunder rang out over the town of Maple Glen, followed by a torrential downpour so sudden it seemed as though the sky had singled out their little village to bear the brunt of its ire.

Elain sighed, burrowing further into the couch under her nest of blankets and pillows. She envied the storm, at that moment. What she wouldn’t give to be able to dump her hurt and anger into the world for a couple hours before being reborn, fresh and dewy, her broken heart melded back together by sunshine as her memories faded like a clearing sky.

She sighed, and the storm raged on as if in answer.

“Do you ever wish you were born as something else?” she asked, swirling the dregs of her bright blue cocktail around in her glass. “Like, a bird, or a tree, or, or…”

Vassa let out a noise that was halfway between a snort and a hiccup. “There it is.”

“There is what?”

“The philosophical stage of your drunk journey. I thought we passed it two drinks ago. First we have affectionate Elain, then loud Elain, followed with a brief appearance by pensive Elain, and then-”

Elain grabbed a throw pillow and chucked it at her friend, who nearly toppled off her end of the couch as she ducked to avoid it. Perhaps they were a bit drunk.

“I mean it,” Elain pressed, draining her glass. “Trees don’t have to worry about dumb boys, or school, or finding a job. They just…” She held out her arms and lifted her head to the ceiling, wriggling her fingers around like leaves in the wind. “Hang out and bask in the sunshine.”

“Babe,” Vassa said drily, “trees get cut down and then get sawed up into building materials or burned or whatever. Dumb boys are the least of their worries.”

Perhaps it was the vodka’s fault, but for some reason this seemed incredibly sad to Elain. Her throat closed up, her eyes suddenly burning with unshed tears.

“Oh no.” Vassa flapped her hands around in a panic, her mirth gone. “Oh shit, what did I say?”

“Lucien had a tree house growing up.” The words bubbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. “He told me his oldest brother helped him build it. And then one day he went out to the forest and discovered that the section of the woods with his tree house had been cut down. Something about tree rot.”

“See,” Vassa said wisely as she refilled both their glasses from a pitcher. “And that’s why you don’t want to be a tree.”

Elain snorted, wiping the tears from her face with an already damp corner of her blanket. She’d shed so many tears in the past two days that she was shocked she hadn’t dried up like a raisin yet.

“Fuck him,” Vassa continued. “He doesn’t deserve a treehouse- or any house, for that matter. He can live on the streets for all I care.”

Elain pictured it for a moment; Lucien’s long fiery hair grown even longer from years of living as a vagabond, a scraggly beard not quite covering his devilish grin. Perhaps he’d live in the woods, in a little cave with a mattress made of leaves and moss. The image didn’t repulse her as much as it should have.

Suddenly she was enraged.

This had been her refrain for the past three days, ever since she had so unceremoniously thrown him out of her apartment. Moments of deep grief when it seemed like she’d never stop crying were followed by rage so intense it felt like her blood was on fire.

The same fire that ran through his veins, the flame that she had found so utterly irresistible.

Her gaze moved against her will, landing on the box sitting in a corner near the door. She’d been studiously avoiding it, torn between the satisfaction she’d get at throwing it out, and the desire to keep a piece of him close, if only for a little while longer.

It was irrational, but that box of stuff had somehow become a physical reminder of him, and getting rid of it would be like cutting the final thread that tethered him to her. Not to mention that a small part of her brain still hoped that he would come back, that somehow it would turn out to all be a misunderstanding.

That he would choose her, against all odds, in defiance of the path that had been laid out for him.

Perhaps even more humiliating than the rejection itself had been the deception. Because he had known- for the entirety of the summer he had spent tangled up in bed with her, whispering that she was the one, making her burn in a way she had never even dreamed possible, he had known it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t last, because by the end of the summer he was due back in England, where his betrothed waited for him.

The fucker had been engaged the entire time and hadn’t bothered sharing that information with her.

But the worst thing of all had been the way she’d so thoroughly fallen for him. Every touch, every whispered word had seemed so sincere that she’d never once questioned his devotion. What a fool she’d been. Perhaps if he had been honest with her from the start she would have allowed him to fall into her bed, but not into her heart.

Or better yet, she would have steered clear of Lucien Vanserra altogether.

Elain could still picture the moment she’d first laid eyes on him during the Summer Solstice festival. Vassa had bullied her into setting up a kissing booth (a venture that had turned out to be quite lucrative) and they’d had a steady stream of customers all morning. Around midday the energy in the crowd had shifted, like a ripple in a pond. And then the crowd had shifted, parting like the sea.

And he had appeared. Tall, his golden skin practically glowing in the summer sun, his shoulder-length hair so vividly red she immediately knew he was a witch. No human could ever look like that. He had locked eyes with her from a distance, and it had felt to Elain like she was being set on fire.

“Who is that?” she stage-whispered to Vassa, who had just given their elementary school math teacher a wholesome peck on the cheek for the sum of five dollars.

“Who?” Vassa followed her gaze, and her eyes went wide, her hand clamping painfully around Elain’s wrist.

“Ow!”

“I think he’s one of the Vanserras,” Vassa whispered, slightly awed. “He’s got to be, look at that hair.”

A smile quirked up the corner of the handsome stranger’s mouth, and Elain wondered absurdly if he had somehow heard. The Vanserras were a powerful magical family, and nobody knew the true depth of their power. She wouldn’t be surprised if they had unnaturally powerful hearing.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Elain said, stupidly. She felt slightly dazed as she continued to stare into his eyes, as if she was physically incapable of looking away.

In truth she had never seen any of them before.

Hundreds of years ago, a man called Thelor Vanserra had founded Maple Glen and tied his magic to the village. Magic ran strong here- for those who knew where to look, that is. Tourists simply assumed they had stumbled upon a particularly charming village, where commerce always boomed and disaster never struck.

But the truly odd thing about Maple Glen was the fact that it never snowed, despite being far enough north that it should by all reason get buried under snow every winter. It was like the town was stuck in perpetual autumn, with only a few weeks of balmier weather in the spring and summer. Nobody questioned it, assuming Maple Glen simply existed in a peculiar micro-climate.

It was a wonder how far people would go to avoid seeing magic, even when it existed right under their noses.

Twice a year, on Summer Solstice and Winter Solstice, a member of the Vanserra bloodline would come to town in order to regenerate the magic for the coming season before disappearing back to England. They were notoriously reclusive and haughty, and were rarely seen around town- much less strolling through a crowded festival.

“I always pictured them scrawny and inbred,” Vassa had said, surreptitiously fixing her hair.

The crooked grin on the stranger’s face widened, and Elain’s stomach dropped. He had definitely heard that.

And then he started walking towards them.

Elain froze, her stomach roiling with equal parts thrill and fear. Would he curse them? It didn’t seem likely, judging from the amusement on his face, but she squirmed nonetheless.

When he was a few paces away from their booth he paused, his eyes still fixed on her. From this close Elain could make out the color of his eyes- a warm brown, tinged russet, as if kissed by the flame his bloodline was rumored to wield. His features were sharp and elegant, his wide jaw covered with the barest hint of auburn stubble. There was a thin, crooked scar running down the left side of his face that, combined with the devilish gleam in his eyes, gave him an aura of danger. It sent a shiver down Elain’s spine, and she felt momentarily struck dumb, as if by magic.

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head. The motion made a strand of his vibrant hair fall over his face, and Elain’s fingers itched to brush it back.

Vassa giggled beside her. Elain had never, in her nineteen years of life, heard her friend make such a sound. She bit her lip hard to prevent herself from doing the same.

“If I walked through fire for you, could I get a kiss too?”

Vassa made a choked sound that sounded as though she was holding in another giggle. Elain could only stare for a moment, before realizing that she was staring at him with her mouth hanging wide open.

“I- sorry, what?”

With a casual wave of his hand a wall of flame had burst to life out of thin air. Elain jumped to her feet, scanning the crowd for signs of anyone having noticed the blatant display of magic. But oddly enough, nobody at all was looking at them. It was almost as if some force was making the crowd look away.

She glanced back at the flames just in time to see him walk through them. Surrounded by flames, with that troublesome grin on his face and his eyes twinkling with mirth, it almost seemed like she was being bewitched by the devil himself.

In the end it turned out to be not too far from the truth.

The summer romance that had followed had completely knocked her off her feet. Lucien was nothing like the boys she’d dated before. There was something charmingly old-fashioned about the way he spoke, his impeccable manners and posh accent so at odds with his serpentine tongue and devilish humour. He had felt like a drug, something decadent and rare that left her buoyant and giddy. She’d been hooked from her first taste, her fate sealed the moment he’d walked through those flames and pressed a feather-soft kiss directly to her lips. She’d let those flames consume her.

But the thing with fire, she’d learned, was that it could be doused in an instant.

Elain wondered if he ever would have said anything at all, had that vision not infiltrated her dreams. Would he simply have left her apartment and gotten on a plane back to Yorkshire without so much as a goodbye, never to be heard from again?

They had been lying in bed when the vision had swarmed her senses, limbs tangled together, a lazily swirling fan doing little to cool their heated skin. There was never any logic or reason to what triggered her visions, but something about that hazy veil between consciousness and sleep seemed to make her prone to them. One unclear reality being replaced by another, images fogging her mind so that sometimes she wasn’t sure if they were visions, dreams, or nothing at all.

But that night, as she’d laid there happy and content, blissfully uncaring about anything but the present, the future had decided to make itself known to her anyway. At first she thought she was simply drifting off into dreams of him, and she had sighed, grateful to be with him even in sleep.

Her blood had grown cold as she’d realized the Lucien in her mind was not alone, and nor was his soft smile aimed at her. There was someone else, someone with long rosewood-colored tresses and hazel eyes that shone almost golden, like a cat’s. Someone who was wearing a white dress, wrapped in the arms of the man currently in her bed.

Someone who was decidedly not her.

At first she’d chosen to ignore it. Perhaps it wasn’t a vision at all, but simply her lust-addled brain playing tricks on her. But then Lucien had announced that he needed to fly back home for a while, to take care of some business.

“I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone,” he assured her, his mouth pressed to her ear. “You won’t even miss me.”

In the span of a few seconds he had managed to rip her heart out and rip it to shreds. She’d been so stunned that at first she didn’t know how ro react.

“I’m sorry, Love,” he murmured, misunderstanding her shock as displeasure. “There’s some things with…my family, that I need to handle in person.”

Something about his choice of words had made Elain want to laugh, even as she was fighting rising tides of panic and heartbreak.

“Who is she?” had been the only words she’d been able to formulate.

Lucien stared at her in shock, the color draining from his skin until she knew for certain she hadn’t miscalculated.

Then had come the accusations, the excuses, the explanations, followed by more accusations.

He was engaged.

Betrothed had been the word he’d used, like something out of those romance novels her sister liked. He was betrothed to a stranger he’d never even met, someone he allegedly had no intention of marrying. He was going back to end it, he claimed. He wanted her, he assured.

“I didn’t want to say anything at first because I didn’t know what this thing was between us, and then when it became serious it felt like it was too late, and I didn’t know what to do, and please, Elain, just look at me…”

She had, and something about seeing him like this, his usual smooth exterior replaced by rambling words and eyes wide with panic, almost made her break. But then she’d remembered the woman in her vision, the one with such unusual colouring that she could only be a witch- and a powerful one, if she had been betrothed to a Vanserra. And most of all, she remembered the joy on Lucien’s face in that vision, the way his eyes had crinkled around the edges like they did when he was happy.

In retrospect, throwing his clothes out the window had perhaps been a tad immature, but it had been effective in getting him to shut up and leave her apartment.

Elain shook her head, clearing away the memories that refused to leave her alone.

“You know what,” she declared, slamming her glass on the coffee table with a clang, “let’s burn his stuff.”

Vassa whooped, jumping to her feet before Elain could second guess her decision. Fuck him. Fuck him and his beautiful fiancé (bethrothed) who no doubt had the perfect pedigree and wielded some powerful brand of magic to match the Vanserra’s. Something respectable, like elemental magic, or a knack for spell work. Not something weird and impossible to understand like her Sight.

“Fuck him,” she said again, getting to her feet. “Fuck her!”

“That’s the spirit!”

Vassa upended the box into their fireplace, lifting up a cloud of dust, ash, and various herbs from an ill-advised cleaning spell they’d tried to cast the week before. “Care to do the honors?” she asked, extending a box of matches towards Elain.

Elain took a shuddering breath as she looked at the sad little pile of ashy belongings. Clothes, a few books, thin leather straps Lucien had used to tie his hair back. Straps he’d once used to bind her wrists together as he-

Elain struck the match so aggressively that it snapped clean in half. The second one lit, the little flame seeming to mock her as it danced near the tips of her fingers.

The fire was slow to catch, smoking pathetically as it tried to crawl along the pile of fabric and books. And then it grew, until their faces warmed by the heat of the flames. Elain very pointedly ignored the fact that Lucien could summon flames ten times this size without so much as blinking.

“We curse you, Lucien Vanserra!” Vassa declared, stirring the flames with a poker.

“I hope you burn in hell,” Elain mumbled.

Vassa cackled. “He’d probably be happy there. Let him rot somewhere his flame can’t catch.”

Elain might have imagined it, but just for a moment the fire seemed to grow brighter in the hearth.

“And may his betrothed be frigid in bed!” Vassa added with another cackling laugh. Once again the flames flashed hotter, almost blue.

“And may she break his heart, just like he did mine,” Elain added sadly.

It seemed like she was speaking directly to the flames themselves, and for a second they appeared to wink in response. She blinked, and shook her head against a wave of disorientation. Merlin, she was drunk.

A flash of lightning lit up the night sky outside, followed by another rumble of thunder that made them both jump. With a mechanical groaning the lights inside the apartment blinked off, leaving them sitting there in the dark.

Vassa groaned. “Damn it, power’s out again.”

But Elain’s attention was still on the fire- or, more accurately, on the space where it should have been. In the space where moments before flames had danced merrily, there was now only a fine layer of ash, all traces of Lucien’s belongings having vanished, like the flames, into thin air.

Elain gulped. “Vassa? I think we might have done something bad.”

#elucien #elucien fanfic #acotar gift exchange #it's a holiday romcom folks #low plot heavy shenanigans #Lucien VanCursed

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llyncooljones · 2 years

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that fourth firework's explosion - elucien.

ao3|| masterlist || elucien masterlist || wishing you a very smutty holiday masterlist

word count: 9845

trigger warnings: language, smutty, smutty goodness.

taglist: in all my benevolence, i've decided to tag creators of elucien content in this one... hope you don't mind. @moononastring, @moodymelanist, @helion-ism, @live-the-fangirl-life, @writtenonreceipts.

their bedroom, six in the morning.

They hadn’t set their alarms last night.

That was lie, her husband absolutely had. He was ridiculous about it.

It was set up automatically on his phone, but every night he would reset it. Double, triple, quadruple check it. He really hated to be late.

No one is sure where that behaviour came from. Certainly, wasn’t his father, the gods know he’s the last one to arrive wherever, whenever. He’ll live to be practically immortal just so he can show late to his meeting with the divine beings. Helion hasn’t been early to anything, not a day in his.

(Including fatherhood, but at least he’s there.)

And it certainly wasn’t his mother, she was organised but simply could not see the sense of living her life abiding to a minute-by-minute schedule. She was free-spirited in the best kind of way, in the way that meant she wanted adventure but being alive was enough of one. That meant she didn’t choose to abandon Lucien in favour of adventure.

It had probably been those militantly strict childhood years that he spent with his mother’s ex-husband, and his much older brothers. Something about those first few years failed to escape his mind and kept up a permanent, exhausting residence there.

But what Elain means by all this, is that it’s impossible to wake your husband up to your mouth on his dick when he’s already in the shower before the first consequence of pressing the snooze button can penetrate the silence.

And if there’s anything Elain loves more than her husband, it’s the face he makes when his dick is in her mouth and he’s a flick of her tongue from coming. When he’s just woken up, a little bit shocked, and his voice is deep and gravelly from sleep it’s her absolute undoing.

The best bit is the ravaging he delivers in the shower only minutes later, the savageness to his thrusts, and his thoroughness when it comes to thumbing her clit under the water. She leaves for work thoroughly satisfied, with the kind of outlook that ensures a brilliant day. Lucien tends to bother her with filthy texts during those days, little teases, and threats of the havoc he’s going to wreak on her when they’re both home from work that evening.

In short, she wants to wake her husband up with a blowjob, and not let him come. Abandon him in bed and take off for work before he can do anything about the tingling in his spine and the heaviness of his balls.

It’s the perfect recipe for what she wants to do in the evening.

Focusing back on her task, she makes sure that her jeans are clean, and that her embroidered sweatshirt is the right way around, that her boots are perfectly positioned so she can slip into them and make for a hasty exit.

If she didn’t, or if she failed to, Lucien would catch her, and Lucien would make sure she finished the job.

She puts her worries to the side, shelving them and she plants her knees on the bed and moves so that she’s straddling his thighs, beneath where his boxers end. The colourful sheets don’t display much, but she can still see the faint outline on his morning wood. Good lords, those have got her in serious trouble before.

Serious.

She tugs the sheet down, and exposes the dark green of his underwear before tugging those down as well. His dick bobs, released from the fabric. She trails a fingertip along the soft length of him, tracing the path of the vein on the underside. He swells a little more, growing the slightest bit harder.

A groan escapes her husband, spurring her forwards as her back hunches and her lips part. She’s inches from his tip now, maybe an inch, and she’s already dripping at the thought of him in her mouth. Dripping—at six in the fucking morning.

Her tongue pokes out, the tip fluttering along the head, moving down ever so slightly, moving up. A long stripe from the base to the tip, circling round to the split. A bead of precum gathers there, dripping down slowly only to be caught by her tongue.

The saltiness urges her further, and she takes his crown into her mouth. Soft suction and the slightest graze of her teeth at the bottom of the fatter tip. So sensitive, his sweetest spot. A little more attention and he’d be coming down her throat in no time. None.

A deep grunt fills the air once her hand reaches down to cup his balls, the tip of her nail dragging across them, the palm of her hand cupping them. His legs jump beneath her body, his stomach suddenly tensing. He’s waking up.

Elain cannot wait for the look on her face when he sees his cock down her throat when he sees her hand pumping what she can’t swallow, the other playing between his thighs. Gods, she can’t wait.

His hand clenches into a fist as she takes a few more inches into her mouth, her mouth wide and her tongue flickering back and forth and back and forth along his shaft. Her head is bobbing in time, her fingers squeezing and rolling and laying on the beat.

She feels like the conductor of his pleasure, in perfect and total control of the instruments, the players and the audience.

Maybe not the audience, the way he’s clenching and his eyes are opening suggests her time as dominant is coming to a close. She loves to be able to tease, loves it, but when Lucien takes control when he starts thrusting those hard, punishing thrusts into her mouth, thumbs rubbing along her jaw, eyes blown painfully wide in pleasure that she gives him access to.

He’s still not quite awake, her hands running lines along his shaft that isn’t enveloped in the heat of her mouth. She can taste the precum that gathers at his tip, licking it. She doesn’t want to try and swallow just for him to still be asleep, the best part of deepthroating him is his own expressions.

She knows damn well he enjoys the control and effort she puts into not gagging, knows all too well that the tears and spit that spill only serve as an incentive for him to push harder. Knows that she won’t stop until her nose hits the trimmed patch of pubic hair.

(The curtains do match the drapes before anyone asks.)

She focuses her efforts on his tip, the skin there flushed and pink, veins just barely visibly. Pulling her mouth off of him, she turns her gaze to the top of the bed, to where her husband lies sleeping, his dreams no doubt full of all sorts of ideas if he’s woken up hard and dripping.

His eyes have flashed open, bright and glazed as he looks down on her, his mouth hooked up in a smirk, his hands knotted behind his head, head propped u against a pillow. She’s sure he has a sight to behold, head down, ass up, cock rock hard and between her lips.

“Don’t stop on my account, dove. Really, keep going.” Oh, gods.

She really shouldn’t have got herself into this, really shouldn’t have tempted her husband. Denying him is like denying herself. She could slip her fingers into her panties right and with a few swipes to her clit she’d be coming, shaking as she holds his dick in her mouth.

So she doesn’t. she doesn’t stop on his account. She rubs her thumb across the tip, grips him just under the head and starts to pump. She drags her thumb around and presses her fingertips and her palm to the pressure she knows gets Lucien there the quickest. Put her other hand to use, ghosting her nails over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, the dusting of hair there. To his sack, keeping her hand rubbing along his length, her tongue licking along her lips: teasing him.

She can see his frustration, can see the control it’s taking him to not grab her hair in his fists and jerk her mouth back him, to make her swallow his girth and his length, to use her for his pleasure.

Deciding to begin with the final, she takes a deep breath. Lucien's hips jerk, knowing for a fact that she’s about to all of him, that he’s about to experience heaven on earth.

Her lips close around his tip, a quick flick of the tongue against it, and she begins to take more of him. Her cheeks hollow out and she bobs her head down him, as she takes and takes and he gives and gives. He hits the back of her mouth with a groan and a low “fuck!” that escapes through his clenched jaw and closed mouth.

Elain is going to take all of him, at six in the morning, she’s going to deepthroat her husband like he’s never been deepthroated, and she’s going to take her mouth off, and he’s going to stare at the spit that trails from her lips to his dick, and she’s going to make a grand escape with him still on the brink of orgasm before he even realises she’s gone.

The thought of her husband desperate, unable to control himself, tempted t to chase her down the driveway just so he can fill her throat and spill into her mouth—leave his taste between her lips and beneath her tongue the entire day.

He hits her gag reflex, ignores her slight protest, and continues pushing his dick between her lips, feeding it down her throat, so deep she can feel it in her pussy.

“Look at me, pet. That’s it, give me those big, brown eyes. Look at you, taking my dick so far down your throat you’re crying. Are those tears for me, pet?” she nods her head, as much as she can with his dick bulging in her throat. “Yeah, of course, they are. Give me all your tears, I’m not pulling out of your pretty, little throat until I’m ready to.”

A small spark of something evil ignites in her at the notion that Lucien holds the power here. He has no clue what his dove, his pet, has in store for him today. Has no clue what he’ll be doing, what he’ll be begging for.

She nods, pretending to be the calm, submissive Good Girl she usually is. Her bratty streaks are rare but always thoroughly enjoyed by both of them. Lucien was nothing if not a tamer of brats, specifically Elain.

Her throat is sore as she continues to ignore her gag reflex, her eyes are streaming now, tears have dripped off the cliff edge her jaw acts, pooling on the neck of her sweatshirt, darkening the colour. She has no doubt spit now sits on her chin and neck, hoping it doesn't stick too stubbornly to her sweater. She does wear it to work for over twelve gruelling hours today.

An evil idea crosses her blank mind, she knows this’ll have Lucien too close to even pay attention to the fact that his dick is no longer in his wife’s mouth, that she’s already hopped off his thighs and the bed and is already closing the bedroom door: making her grand escape.

She stretches one hand from where she has it resting next to Lucien’s hip and sneaks it under her body and between his legs. It isn’t as though they haven’t done this before; it isn’t as though either one of them is a stranger to this. It’s just she’s never had her nose in his pubic hair, his dick too far down her throat, him just on the precipice of ecstasy when she’s done it before.

With one manicured nail, she gathers a little of the spit that’s dripped and saturates her finger in it. Makes sure it’ll be comfortable when she does it. A little has already dripped (it only makes her job easier).

With practised ease, her finger inches forward, never touching his thighs or his balls, not catching his leg hair at all. She’s being so sneaky about it that she almost laughs, and almost lets his dick come up for air. She doesn’t, she’s far too desperate to see Lucien’s face when his dick is in her mouth and her finger is in his ass, wants too desperately to watch those eyes blown wide, that mouth parted on pure pleasure, that forehead crinkled, his eyebrows raised, neck, cheeks and chest flushed at the inherent dirtiness of it all.

The first touch has him jerking and jumping up, his dick pushing a little too hard. Her gag reflex pushes her throat up and tighter around him. He moans. She kind of wants to cry. She doesn’t. she rubs the pad of her finger in soft circles on the muscle there to relax him. A heavy breath is released, his body sinking into the subtle pleasure of it, the promise that lies with her finger.

She doesn’t give up deepthroating, nor her circling of the tight muscle. Not until he’s clenching and relaxing, not out of shock but pleasure. With bated breath, she pushes past it, feeling the heady clench of the rosebud around her fingertip.

Her finger never stills, bending a little, twisting a little, inserting a little further. When she’s up to her second knuckle, his dick starts pulsing in her mouth, she watches as the cuts and grooves of his muscles in his thighs and stomach tighten impossibly, as his face screws up in indescribable pleasure.

She had almost forgotten how much he loved the odd bit of penetration. She isn’t sure he’d be up to pegging, nor had she ever asked him. As much as he loved to put a plug in her ass, she isn’t sure he’d ever be worn down enough to wear one of his own for her.

With every movement of her finger, every second longer that she spends with her finger in his ass, and his dick in her mouth, she can feel him getting closer, closer, closer. She is really connected with this idea of teasing him, of torturing him. Pushing him to the edge of his seat for a change.

On a sudden whim, she decides he has ten more seconds of this other-worldly experience before she’s gone and teasing him via text messages and phone calls for the rest of the day. Before he’s suffering for the rest of the day.

Ten…

His eyes clench suddenly as her finger finds that one perfect spot in him, his shaking with the effort it takes him to stay still. Even in his state of absolutely agonising lust, he’s still making an effort to not hurt her, not make sure she’s okay.

Nine…

Her finger leaves his prostate, deciding to push against in other areas. This time, a long-suffering sigh escapes his clenched teeth, his lips taut and his biceps painfully flexed behind his head. She’s sure his hands are caught up in his hair.

Eight…

Her tongue pushes against the underside of his cock, tracing the bulging vein that travels along the pinky-red skin there. She has no doubt he can feel the blood rushing to his cock, quicker and quicker. Is his vision going spotty, is he biting his tongue, has he drawn blood yet?

Seven…

Her free hand is cramping in its clenched position by his hip, fingers itching to do something more, to tease just one extra bit of him, leave him that much more dazed, push him that much closer to hunting her down ad just taking her.

Six…

Furrows appear in his brow as her hand moves up his chest, till she reaches one sun-touched pec and the bronze disc of his nipple. Flat, but tight. Her thumb and forefinger pinch, grabbing the bud of nerve-endings. His fists grasp the sheets as he lets out the moan to end all other moans.

Five…

“Fuck, fuck. Oh, gods, Elain. dove, please.” She isn’t sure what he’s asking for. Maybe he wants for her head to move, maybe he wants for her finger to be joined by another, maybe he wants his other nipple to have just as much attention.

Four…

She does all of them. She teases another miraculously wet finger into his ass, pushing past the tight, tight muscle and into him. She knows he’s losing his mind. Her head moves up his dick, lifting off her gag reflex. She moves her hand to another side, pinching the opposite nipple, flicking it a little, too.

Three…

He groans this time, viciously. It cuts through the hazy morning sunshine, it’s a little animalistic, primal even. He’s getting desperate. He’s pushing where he can so that Elain will add that extra suction so that she’ll do that one extra thing. Just so he can get there.

Two…

Lucien has been fooled, painfully. Elain is far too aware of his body to ever forget or not realise the signs of his incoming orgasm. She knows that he flushes bright, knows that faces move so that lips part and his eyes close, that his nose crinkles just the slightest bit.

One…

His body is responding to how close he is to flying off the edge. He’s tense all over, he’s opening his mouth but not making a sound. He’s closing his eyes but not screwing them up. His nose is crinkling adorably. His neck is suddenly red, and the tips of his ears, too.

Zero…

She releases his dick from the confines of her mouth and her sore, sore throat. Her fingers are gently pulled from in his ass, making sure to not stimulate anything. Her fingers let go of the nipple they grasp. He’s still so close, he’s dripping precum, and she can taste it in her throat, in her mouth. It coats her mouth in a filthy film that’ll tease her tastebuds all day long.

His hips a rolling and jumping, his back a little arched. His russet eyes are still shielded, he can’t see that she’s left the bed and is grabbing her tote bag from where she rested it against the door. He can’t tell that she’s opening and closing their bedroom door, can’t tell that she’s gone.

A few seconds later, she’s opening their front door when an angry, frustrated, turned-on shout follows her as she slips through, finishing just as she locks the doors. “Oh, pet, you’ll regret this later! I’ll make sure about that. I promise.”

their house, early evening.

She has no doubt about whether or not she’ll regret it. She knows she will. It’s a sure fucking thing. She absolutely will. Lucien will make sure of it. And if she ever did have any doubts about it, she certainly ensured it with what she had done the rest of the day.

After leaving their home in a flurry of Lucien’s shouts and threats—his promises, really—she had driven to work like some sort of mad woman, pushing the speed limit and running amber light after amber light.

She isn’t usually unlocking the front door to her florist's shop until eight in the morning, so arriving at quarter to seven is foreign. The eerie quiet and the darkness that seems to filter through the windows. The sign across the top of the windows and the front door reads nurture, grow, bloom. The writing is elaborate and cursive and she loves it with her whole heart.

Most of the work she did until her few employees arrived was janitorial and admin, checking stocks, making sure her taxes were in order, and creating a few plans for special edition bouquets, or seasonal window displays.

After eight, the speed picked up. Husbands and wives rushing in to buy last-minute presents, fourth of July bouquets are selling like mad, and orders for weddings, christening, funerals, and Independence Day celebrations are pouring in like nothing before.

Spring and summer are always their busiest seasons, flowers seem to be symbolic.

The shop had been so hectic all morning that she hadn’t had the chance to even check on her phone, oh, but when she had. What she had found waiting for her eyes to feast on was everything she needed.

All she needed to know was exactly what to do.

midday, nurture, grow, bloom.

She lets all her stress escape from her body as she shuts the door to her office behind her. She has Alis and Clare up front, manning the cash registers and the phone, her recently hired ‘errand boy’ Isaac Hale was in the back cutting stem, de-leafing, prepping, wrapping, doing whatever t takes to have enough bouquets and fresh flowers to keep up with the new life demand that comes with the beginning of summer and the end of spring.

She knows in her heart that the shop will be fine while she takes a break, just to eat, take a breather, and check-in with her sisters, and her friends. Her husband. With a sigh, she unlocks her phone and could almost cry when she sees a little 25 in the red bubble by her messages app. So many more messages than the two that awaited her this morning.

She clicks the icon, bracing for impact. The most recent four messages are from her husband, the contact name lucy indicating as much. She clicks on them, not expecting what she sees there. Not expecting the three, long paragraphs that she is sure to go into graphic detail about what her punishment will be for leaving him there, gasping for her mouth back on him.

lucy: I see you want to play with fire, little dove. I would warn you that it’ll only burn, but I do know that you like a little bit of pain. I’m telling you now, that this will end with you screaming. My name and the gods’. You left me this morning, and I promise you’ll regret it.

lucy: I’m guessing it’s your lunch break that you’re seeing these messages during. I know you work hard. Is your office door locked? Lock it. Is there some music playing? Play some. Are you wet yet? I think you are; I know you are. The slightest thing has you ready to go, doesn’t it, dove. You were wearing jeans and a sweater when you left this morning. Take your sweater off, unbutton your jeans, and slip them down so you can slide your fingers under your panties. Touch your clit for me, press a little. Can you feel it throbbing, I can imagine it. Circle it a couple of times, and drag your fingers down. Feel how wet you are for text messages and my voice inside your head. Feel how much I turn you on. Are whimpering yet, is your heart beating too fast, and are you feeling a little breathless. Keep going, I want you soaking through your panties just my touching, no penetration.

lucy: Touch your pussy when you can feel yourself on your thighs when you are fucking dripping. Slide a finger inside, dove, feel around. How soft you are, how wet you are, how tight you are, how warm you are. Gods, I love how you feel around me. Touch your clit again, add another finger, fuck yourself on your fingers. Do whatever it is that makes you makes you get there; I want you to come, sat in your office, jeans shoved down, me on your mind. And I want you to come all over your fingers.

lucy: Send me a picture of your fingers, covered in your wetness, afterwards. I want to sit in my office and just imagine. Have a lovely rest of your day, hope no customers are too bad. L, xoxo.

She reads through all four of the messages in their entireties before moving from her position in the office chair. When she finishes, gripping her phone too tight in her hands, her body is humming. Sexual excitement carves a determined path through her body.

Her nipples pebble beneath her bra, the lace covering her breasts enough stimulation on the sensitive peaks that she’s almost whimpering. Her stomach is twisted in knots at the promise his first message tells, the fact that punishment of some sort, of any sort, awaits her the nest time she sees her husband. Her cunt, she’s sure, is dripping already. No need for those first few touches her husband instructs her to do. She doesn’t need them. She’s sure that her lace underwear is not only soaked from her earlier blowjob-escapade but now from her husband's dirty, dirty thoughts.

Her neck flushes, her cheeks burn, her ass clenches, her toes curl, her fingers flex. All in the span of the short few minutes it takes her to read her husband’s messages.

Up and out of her chair in an instant, she opens her office door a crack: only to shout out to her employees that they aren’t to disturb her until she comes out of her office. Whenever that is.

The door is locked, music is started, and the blinds and windows are closed and double-checked. She isn’t looking to give anyone a show. No siree.

She rips her jumper over her head, disturbing the slight waves that gave her hair volume. She doesn’t have it in her to care, all she can think about is the perfect angle to take that photo in, should she include her underwear as well, do it in the style of a nude.

Her jeans are pulled to just above her knees and she slumps into the office chair. One hand grips her phone, the other skirting towards her waistband. The words he had written are repeated over and over in her head.

The first touch to her clitoris has a shiver descending her spine, the second makes her eyes close, she presses down a little, rubs around, and a slight moan makes its path through her throat. Her arousal is almost too much, she doesn’t like not hearing her husband: his voice, his noises, the slap of skin, of them.

It’s obsessive.

As per her husband's messages, she pushes a finger inside. She does feel how warm she is, how tight she is, how wet she is, and how soft she is. She feels the changes in texture, and presses and teases the spot behind her clit.

Does what her stomach twists at, what makes her arousal soar. She usually finds it difficult to get off on her own, without Lucien and without some sort of toy. Finds it a little awkward maybe, so used to the screaming, ripping, flying pleasure that her husband and plastic can give her that she forgot the shaking, pulsing, rollercoaster her very own hand can deliver.

She can’t stop now, adds another finger, searches her walls for what has her thighs clenching violently, her tummy sucking in, her ears turning some obscene shade of red. She finds at one spt that has her closing her legs around her arm and doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t give in. she keeps at it, pushing and twisting and flicking, moving on and moving back. It’s a dance until she finds an angle that means her clit rubs the heel of her palm and her fingers tease the spot along her muscles that is magical.

She can hear him. Praising her, degrading her, gripping her wrist to position her hand even better, pushing her clit with his thumb, circling and teasing it, blowing a light, little breath against it. Just to tease, not enough to set of the explosion witing to happen.

It comes when she doesn’t expect it. It creeps up on her. One second, she’s not even moaning and the next her legs are shaking, and her cunt is clenching something fierce and she can’t seem to let go and her palm is still rubbing her clit and the pulses just don’t seem to stop and she shakes and she shakes, and gods, does she shake.

It’s minutes later when she recognises, she’s sweating and dripping her arousal down her thighs, when she thinks back to the picture she has to send of her saturated fingers. And gods, are they. She’s wetter than she’s been in too long and her fingers are coated.

She wants to be there when Lucien opens the image, when she realises just how hot and bothered his prim and proper wide got at just a few text messages.

The picture is napped hastily, and she doesn’t have it in her to check her photography or whether he’s seen it yet before she shuts it off and shoves it into her desk drawer. Self-control.

Self-control.

She needs to have some of it. Impulse control as well because her husband clearly lacks both in dangerous quantities. Dangerous for too many things, in too many ways.

She pulls her jeans up, wincing and wriggling around in them to find a comfortable position her jumper is thrown back on, her hands attempting to smooth the wrinkles in it. She knows she probably looks like she just fingered herself on her husband’s orders in the back office, and she knows the scent of her wetness clings to her fingers. But no one will smell it through the latex of the gloves they use to handle the flowers.

Hopefully.

She finishes her actual lunch in a few minutes and throws the Tupperware container into her bag. She takes time to turn the music off, to lift up the blinds and crack the side window the way it usually is. Gathering a hand at her nape, she fans her hair out and makes sure it shines just as it did before she came all over her fingers in her office chair.

She exits the office, with a careful grace and a fake confidence. She notices the faces her employees wear as she strolls past them, knows absolutely that they suspect. The little grin and thumbs up Alis gives her, the wink Isaac sends her way, eyebrows raise and hip thrust from Clare is enough to have her cringing.

“Alright, back to work. The lot of you!” her tone is full of laughter, and she’s glad she can have these calm and casual relationships.

their house, present time.

Sure. If you look at it rationally her photo and her reaction, following his instructions was perfect. Exactly what he demanded from her.

That’s because anyone who is looking is looking from outside their relationship. Turning her phone off is the one really bad thing she could have done. Had she left on she would have been greeted with a million more messages from her husband, telling her to work herself to a second, a third, and if she’s really fucking lucky, a fourth orgasm.

He’s a big fucking fan of giving Elain as many orgasms as she can possibly handle. Making it so she strokes herself to four just on his text messages and maybe a phone call is probably wet dream material to Lucien.

Almost certainly.

So, what she should have done is left her phone on and taken a two-hour lunch break to do what she’s sure his text messages tell her to do. She wouldn’t know, she hasn’t turned her phone since turning it off. Maybe that’s stupid, maybe she’s missed some crucial business calls, or maybe her sisters phoned with an emergency, but so long as she doesn’t waste more time touching herself to typed words, she’s a very happy woman.

A very happy woman who’s going to be punished.

And at her plotting and planning, she’s going to be punished the way she wants to be.

At her own wishes.

Her husband just doesn’t know it yet.

Her hair is pinned up into some kind of braid crown with strands falling out and framing her face, sticking to her nape. She’s done her make-up to be subtle and tear-proof, only a tiny pop of colour here and there. Her feet are lifted by a pair of pale pink, patent leather stilettos that match what she dons under a brown trench coat perfectly.

A set of pale pink lingerie, with only a thin, black slip over the top. It hits too high on her thigh to cover the straps connecting her thigh-high stockings to her garter belt. She’s sure the lace of her panties, bra, and garter belt is imprinting on the silk. She’s sure if anyone were to look carefully, they’d figure her out in seconds.

Before she can doubt herself, and whether or not this is a good idea, she’s slamming the door to her car and takes off down the driveway. The SUV doesn’t bounce too badly on the gravel, the slight bumps almost soothing to her. The subtle up and down is something she needs in the moment: to calm her down, to keep her on this journey.

Her purse rests on the passenger seat, her phone still off in one of the many pockets. The access key card to Lucien’s office building is surely burning a hole through the expensive leather. Her plan is sneaky and something one does when a relationship is new, when they’re still trying to make it so that sex works as the only form of intimacy.

A song plays on the radio, some angry song about cheating and toxic exes and moving on to bigger and better and longer-lasting things. In all senses of the words. She could scream to the universe that she agrees. That the song tells her story as though the writer was there to witness her train wreck of a life as if they were there to witness the moment her sister’s fiery friend entered the picture and put his absolute best into re-railing her train.

Her mind is so laser-focused on the moments before, during, and after Lucien’s dramatic entrance into her life she doesn’t realise that she’s pulled into a spot in the underground car park, does not realise that she’s sat here with her hand on the gear stick and the other on the wheel, eyes focused onto some point in the middle distance.

She’s pondering the number of people she’s stared at unintentionally when she realises, once again, that she’s staring and frozen and incredibly distracted from the task at hand.

Placing a mask of cool, casual confidence on her features, she places the handles of her bag in the V created by her bent arm, whilst the key card is gripped between the curled fingers of the same arm.

She looks like some kind of entitled brat, and she could play the role to a perfect T, but instead goes for the look that says she is good enough to be walking across this tarmac, and that anyone who dares questions that better be ready to face the full force of the consequences.

The elevator opens when she scans the key card, doors closing around her, alone. She’s glad to be without company, it allows her to screw her head on straight, to make sure she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Her plan is simple. Almost too simple. But she knows her husband better than anyone else and if she knows anything about him, it’s that he can smell elaborate bullshit from ten miles away. So, she always keeps it simple and yet also difficult to get read on.

Her plan goes as follows: get into his building, check; collect her thoughts in the elevator, check; get into his office, yet to be checked off; commandeer his dick, yet to be checked off; do whatever the hell feels right and make sure it’s enough to distract him away from punishing her, yet to be checked off.

The elevator dings and her nerves set a new record for just how much time they can annoy her for. She hasn’t encountered a single person here, and the car park was relatively empty. She appreciates the low risk of someone walking in on them, appreciates the low risk of someone up-skirting her and making it so that her soaked panties are the next big thing. But not one single person would expect a husband and wife to be fucking in his top floor, corner office whilst the fourth of July celebrations fizz in the night sky surrounding them.

Which made today, the perfect day.

The door to Lucien’s office is open a crack, and all she can hear is typing. The steady click-clack of those long, elegant fingers typing up a report of some kind. It’s rhythmic, soothing, a fucked-up sort of lullaby that would only ever lull a workaholic to sleep.

She ever so gently pushes the door open, careful of the squeaky hinges he so constantly complains about. She doesn’t want to him to know she’s here, in his office, until she’s right where she needs to be.

Her footsteps are hard to keep quiet in stilettos, and she thanks the lord for the massive Persian rugs that cover the entirety of Lucien’s office floor. The gifts from his mother and father anytime they go to their home countries.

The soft fabric makes the click-clack of her heels less noticeable, but she sees the changes in her husband’s body language when he realises someone is in his office and sees the even subtler changes when he realises that someone is her.

His flat expression glides into one of sly glee, a smile which details every dirty, filthy, sexual thing he could do to her in this office. Of every dirty, filthy, sexual thing he has done to her in this very office. Of the dirty, filthy, sexual things he plans to do to her in the coming hours, that he wishes to stain his office chair, and desk for the hundred-and-sixth time.

That he knows she came here with a plan, and that she should know it’s about to be flipped upside down and twisted ‘round and ‘round the roundabout of his depraved mind until it fulfils his fucked-up and oh-so-welcome whims.

That he isn’t so easily tricked, especially so when he has a bone to pick with his wife.

Her hopes shatter with one flex of the muscle in his jaw, with one quick quirk of his lips, with one single eyebrow raise. She doesn’t need to ask, she already knows. She knows that she’ll leave this office, Lucien holding her close, wishing she had never started this game in the morning. Wishing she’d never turned his alarm off, that she’d never taken his dick into her mouth.

“I wouldn’t exactly call this a surprise, dove, but I will say that I appreciate it as though it is one. Now, tell me, what exactly do you hope to get out of this trip here?” His voice is dark and sexual, his usually russet eyes are shades darker, his usually open face is closed off in the way that tells her not to push his limits—that she won’t like the consequences if she does.

She doesn’t push his limits, instead she answers plainly, and as truthfully as she can muster herself to.

“I was hoping, to make it up to you.” She hopes her voice isn’t shaking, hopes her posture is straight, that she looks as confident as she wants to be. She looks at him—her sweet, sweet Lucy, her dark, dark Mr Vanserra—unflinchingly, not moving her eyes from his gorgeously pigmented ones.

“Make what up to me, exactly, dove?” He paints the question with gentle brush strokes with pale, understated colours. But she knows it’s all a ruse, that one slip-up will have her over his knee and screaming for the gods as he takes his frustrations at her, out on her body.

“You know. This morning, lunchtime. All that.”

“Alright, how do you want to do that? What do you think you can do to make up for the denied orgasm, the unanswered messages, the blatant teasing, the secrecy and plotting, and the constant fucking semi I’ve had today. It was fun, standing up in front of the whole company, having to keep my hands in my pockets like some insolent prick so that no one could see what you do to me. So much fun.” Oh, shit.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as easy as she had predicted it to be. Maybe this wouldn’t be an easy blow job under the desk, rough sex when they get home.

“How about, you tell me what you want me to do. Then you’re pleased and I’m the one who is going to be—” and she really won’t be, she can get pleasure from just about anything Lucien does these days “—compromised or punished. Not pleased.”

She sees the idea form in his brain, and watches as his mouth twists into this domineering smirk that has her overwhelmed. She both dreads and loves the way he looks at her moments later. Dreads it because she knows this is going to be something slightly out of her comfort zone. Loves it because something new is always something better, is always something that takes their sex life to the next fucking level.

She knows she’s suddenly wet, she’s suddenly soaking through her panties as ideas swim through her head, as situations dart from neuron to neuron, pulsating arousal flooding her body like the ocean tides rising on a beach.

“Drop the coat, show me what you have on underneath it.”

She must hesitate for a second or look unsure about dropping the coat with his office door still cracked open, and from the looks of the car park, a few of his co-workers are still in the building. She must do so, because the next thing her husband does is get up from his desk chair.

He looks impossibly good, in his shirt and slacks. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, the tie hanging slightly loose. He looks rumpled and ruffled, his hair is all tousled, a little knotty she’d bet but still silky smooth to the touch.

He’s lucky like that.

He slides just past her, brushing his body along hers in a show of… something. He peeks around the door and instructs someone to hold all his calls and treat it as though he isn’t in the building, he’s just going to be that busy, that hard-working. He then closes and locks the door, and Elain is suddenly glad for the brick walls in his building. She hates to think of the suspicion that would be caused if he suddenly pulled down all his blinds.

He turns to face her, less than a metre from her. She undoes the fabric belt of the trench coat and lets the ends hang loose, glad for the few buttons she did up in the middle section of the coat. If not, she would already be on display, her husband would already be eating up her appearance, ravenous for more, whilst her own mind was still spinning from the car ride over.

Her handbag falls from her arm with a quiet thud on the rugs, allowing Lucien access to her coat, his deft fingers slipping the buttons from their respective holes, each slip revealing more lace and skin and each one brings the slightest brush of his finger against her skin. Goose bumps pop out along her skin, her eyes are suddenly heavy as the gentle caress along her stomach.

He finishes with the buttons, his hands reach up to her shoulders, thumbs brushing gently against her collar bones and the coat falls to the ground in a puddle surrounding her feet.

He bends down and the moment of absolute silence, of such stillness and fox-like elegance, is almost too much to bear. She feels gentle and cared for, absolutely adored as he grazes his thumb and index finger around her ankle, beneath her jutting ankle bone, and slips the patent leather heel from her foot.

With one of her legs bent to accommodate the height difference between them, she balances a slim-fingered hand against her husband’s built shoulder blade, putting her weight on him—somewhat self-consciously, as though he doesn’t make her sit on his face, or pull her on top of him to ride his dick, or carry her up the stairs on the prowl to her cunt, or pull her into his lap on the couch, or hold all her weight as he pins her to the wall, the shower tiles, the door.

The other heel is removed just as carefully, with the same grace and smoothness that her husband seems to just have. From his feline-like father no doubt.

(She doesn’t want to think about how that aided her father-in-law and mother-in-law in creating the fine fucking specimen before her.)

He stands in one motion, going from on his knees before her still dominating her so simply, to standing before her, subsequently crosses the room, to hang her coat on a hook in the wall, place her bag and shoes underneath—neatly, almost extravagantly so.

He stands in front of her once more before she can realise that he’s moved from the wall, and his hands take hers and pull her gently forwards as he walks backwards. He moves gracefully past the armchairs in front of his desk, around the sharp corners of his big-shot, boss-man desk as she so loves to call it all while she stumbles along the rug-covered floor.

“Oh, pet, you have no idea how much I am going to enjoy this. It’s going to be fucking exquisite, seeing you all torn up and desperate.” He exhales on a pleased sigh and she’s suddenly aware of all the places they are touching, which is also known as not very many. Only their hands are together, and she wants them closer, so close that even the atom-wide gap between everything in the world is squashed and threatened by their closeness.

He sits down in his office chair, slumping into it without grace for the first time this night. He seems careless and reckless as he does so, arms crossed while his legs are spread.

He crooks a finger at her, pulling her towards him with some kind of magnetic pull of just about everything. She’s helpless to deny him and finds herself almost floating over the decadently soft rugs in her stockings. He wraps one hand around her wrist now, tugging her towards him and down, down, down until she’s sprawled across his lap.

Her legs are a mess as she sits, her unhurried husband with the boner of the century just there, letting her get comfortable. Him all dressed up, her in scraps of fucking lace. Dressy, classy lace, but lace that barely covers her, nonetheless. Her bra is still in place, lace unable to cover the pebbled state of her nipples.

She knows her husband has seen them, knows he plans to bite and suck and tease and make little hickey pathways to them with his mouth: his lips, teeth, and tongue.

His voice is clear, a deep baritone as it sounds across her skin where his mouth is focused. “Unzip my pants, Elain.” Elain does so, the little sounds as the teeth disengage drawing some sort of Pavlovian reaction from her, sending slight shivers along her spine at the thought of what he could do to her.

Her breath is held in her throat as she spots the straining impression of his cock against the dark green of his underwear. If she looks really hard, she’s sure she could spot a wet patch where the head of cock has leaked precome, not only now but during the work day as well.

“Now, pull my cock out.” His instructions are so painfully simple that it makes her want to cry, she feels as though he’s doing it on purpose, just to keep her on the edge, not one hundred per cent sure about anything.

Her hand shakes a little as she tugs at his waistband, as she tucks her fingers under the elastic and wraps an unsure fist around the hot length of him. For some reason, she feels better that this morning. Feels this assuredness of so many things—she can’t help but ignore the rest of the world as she gets her greedy hands on his cock.

He’s thick and hot in her hand, the ruddy skin contrasting her pale fingers. Her fingers just barely meet, as Elain pulls him from his underwear. She pumps a loose fist up and down him, looking up at her husband through her eyelashes to gauge his reaction.

Eyes hooded, lips drawn tight, jaw clenched. In the split second, she’s staring at him for she can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad one, can’t tell if she should give her husband the hand job he wished he’s received in high school, or whether she should wait for his ice-cold instruction.

Before she can come to a decision, his hand is fisting in her hair and yanking her back. Not enough to hurt, but enough to shock her into dropping his dick. “Elain, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted a punishment. But you just can’t seem to be able to help yourself. You never have been, have you. Always been such a cock whore, desperate for it. Always trying to your hands, your mouth, your cunt, and if you’re really desperate, that tight little ass around it.”

She holds her gasp in, stops herself from indignantly disagreeing with his cock whore label for her. But she can’t. Not really. Ever since she’d first seen it, she’s had some sort of insatiable, perma-need for the thickness of in her.

“Yeah, you know it. You know you are. Lucky for you, sweet thing, I just happen to be an evenly matched whore for your sweet cunt.” The words float along her body, touching areas of her that come alive, an involuntary roll of her hips pushing her sensitive clit over the wet, hot head of his dick. “And, to be quite honest with you, I’m just about dying to feel you on me.”

Cool, deft fingers find their way under her little, black dress, and have torn her panties from her body before she even has even the slightest clue to stop him, to announce to the suddenly furnace-hot that the scrap of lace had cost upwards of two hundred in the store.

Before she can remind herself to keep her mouth closed, to not push the limits and test the boundaries, her words explode from her lips, in a flurry of annoyance and dollar signs dissipate. “Gods! Lucien, they cost over two hundred dollars, I can’t believe this. Honestly, Luci—” all the fight leaves her when he spins her around suddenly, pulls her arms like a scarp around his neck and pushes her onto his lap.

Her knees rest on either side of his hips, those narrow, powerful hips, whilst her head immediately goes to his neck, breathing in the forest-y, dusky smell of him. The deep notes of oak and something so incredibly autumnal. Her lips catch the skin beneath his ear, dragging themselves over the hyper-sensitive spot; her body sighing as a shiver runs through him.

The soft, wet tip of him brushes against the apex of her thighs, the now-bare skin of her sex so close to it she’s hardly containing the urge to grip him at the base and slam herself down.

His voice is rough with need and desperate desire, thick with heady obsession and the urge to take, take, take. “You move your hands from around my neck, pet; that’s a spank. You speak up without being spoken to or asked to; that’s a spank. You move your hips around; that is a spank. You try to get yourself off, you touch yourself, to give that attention-whore clit of yours the attention it needs; that’s a spank.”

She feels her husband’s arm move as he grips himself at the base, his other hand gripping an ass cheek, before lining himself up and urging her to sit on him. Push their hips together until there isn’t space between them until they’re fitting together like a two-piece puzzle.

Each inch she takes inside has her gasping, has her throwing her head back and focusing on keeping her lips together, her arms around his neck, her hips still against him, her fingers off herself. She feels the thickness of him drag against the soft heat of her insides, feels the head of cock as it drags against her g-spot. As his hips meet hers, as he’s as deep as he can go.

She’s stupidly full, too close to being drunk on the feel of his cock in her, not moving, not throbbing. Just there, being fucking warmed.

She felt like an object, silent and still, locked around both his body and his dick. She felt small and insignificant, as one hand gripped her ass cheek and the other went to papers on his desk he’s been flicking through previous to her arrival. She felt all sorts of things burning through her, delicate and treasured, to taken for granted and whored out.

She and Lucien hadn’t necessarily tried this—her keeping his fucking cock warm in her cunt—but they had discussed to almost an awkward point what made each of them hot, and to what extent it made the other hot. This was something neither was experienced in, but both wanted to try.

After minutes had passed, her hips began to ache, her pussy slightly delirious with the need for him to just fucking move. A single thrust, maybe, would be all she needed to detonate like a bomb. On a single pump of his hips, a brush of his thumb against her nipple, the flick of his fingers against her clit. The pin would be pulled. The grenade prepping to explode. The handle was released. No hope of resecuring the pin.

Boom.

Orgasming to all known corners of the universe, coming to ridiculous extents, far too gone to know even her own name. but she isn’t, and it makes her feel a little too murderous given the fact she’s currently dripping down her husband’s cock and onto the supple, expensive leather of his desk chair.

Despite her orgasm at the flower shop in her office, she feels ridiculously tense, too fired up for it to make sense. But no matter, it didn’t lessen the magnitude of her need.

A low whine escaped her, and a light slap on her ass greeted her mild transgression. “Dove,” escaped him on a groan as her hips jerked in response to the love tap, as her clit bumped his pubic bone and the trimmed hair below it, as she contracted so tightly against him that his heart stuttered, and his breathing became pants.

He refocuses on his work, fingers tapping at his worn keyboard as Elain koala’s him thoroughly. She’s nearly shaking now; time has flown past them on a jet stream of massive proportions. Her thighs are tense and visibly trembling, her cunt spasming with every slight shift of her husband’s body, her mouth hungry for a kiss, for the permission to moan and groan and shout to the heavens her absolute pleasure.

It feels as though hours have passed as she sits on her husband, impatience consuming her, darkness falling on the night sky, fireworks lighting it up, cheers and music and chanting drifting from the streets upward and through her husband’s slightly opened office windows.

Despite her previous order to not speak, she can’t bear it anymore and cannot stand it any longer. With nails clawing at his skull, her knees and thighs shaking enough to induce an earthquake, she begs against his ear, begs so beautifully. “Lucien, oh gods, please. Fuck, fuck! Please, let me come. I jus—just wanna, oh fuck, come!”

She doubts her words have any impact, not since for the past hour her husband has been the picture of cool, calm, and collected all whilst she’s lost her damn mind and sweated her fucking demons out sitting on his dick, clenching and tightening without a single reaction.

But to her every surprise, Lucien’s pulse jumps and thrums frantically against his throat, a heavy arm coming out to swipe the middle of his desk clear. He stands on strong, somehow steady, legs and places Elain down.

His cock shifts imperceptibly inside of her, brushing against spots she’s only ever discovered with Lucien, pushing against pressure points that push to the furthest extremes of the scale.

“Hands stay where they are, cross your legs around my hips, and for the sake of the gods, hold on. I’ve got no patience for this,” his commands have an instant effect on her, her arms tighten, her legs loop around cross over, and she grips him enough that they’ll stay close.

With his lips poised over hers, his hands gripping her hips with the perfect pressure to bruise five dots into her sin, he pulls out of her warmth, so only the tip remains, before thrusting back in with a force Elain wishes is constant.

But no, not Lucien.

He fluctuates, fast and soft, fast and hard, slow and soft, slow and hard. She has no clue where he’s going next, and where she’s being taken to but gods de damned, she’s enjoying the ride. With every heavy thrusting his balls hit against her, and with every withdrawal the sound of the sticky arousal fills the office space, the scent of their sweat and their sex permeating every surface until Elain is sure he’ll never get rid of it.

Lucien can’t seem to stop, his hips on a never-ending mission to discover a brand-new type of pleasure, his hands moving from her hips to her back, t her breasts, to her lips, to her clit. Gripping the desk for milliseconds as he thrusts hard enough to shift the mammoth thing.

A new force arrives behind his movements when elain becomes higher-pitched, as she can’t stop clenching and contracting; moaning and keening, and a million and three other things that betray her looming orgasm.

Before the slight woman can prepare for the earth-crumbling experience that is sneaking up on her, it’s hitting her square in the face. One final thrust and she stills before arching her back so deep it’s hard to imagine she has a healthy spine.

The same second that she stills, he thrusts the hardest yet, burying himself inside of her and throbbing so viciously that he’s coming within seconds of the beginning of her own orgasm. With a hand in her hair, his lips against her, his come slowly dripping onto his desk, they stand/sit there, totally absorbed in each other, glad to have the other.

#elucien #wishing you a very smutty holiday #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #smut #elucien smut #my fic #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fic #my writing #llyncooljones' writing

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